


The Astronomy of Our Hearts

by anupturnedboat



Category: Roswell (TV), Star-Crossed (TV 2014)
Genre: Abandoment Issues, Aliens, Angst, Crossover, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:05:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anupturnedboat/pseuds/anupturnedboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of astronomy is a history of receding horizons – Edwin Powell Hubble</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because there is still room on the CW for the Roswell aliens.

_The history of astronomy is a history of receding horizons – Edwin Powell Hubble_

2024

To Liz the idea of planets fading out of existence was eerily ordinary. Like trees in a gigantic black forest losing their grip. Whether by chance or will, the end would eventually come, sometimes you would hear it, sometimes you wouldn’t, not that it mattered, trees would always fall.

She adjusted the new telescope she’d ordered on Amazon, and made sure there were enough books for her small class. It wasn’t a university, or a world renowned lab, but the work she was doing was important - for her son and for the other children along this deserted stretch of the bayou. From here, she wouldn’t be pointing out Antar or Atria, but there were other stars, other planets, other possibilities.

The Atrians landing had seemed like a sign to Max, a call to do something more than hide from the F.B.I and miss the lives they had given up. She agreed, hoping that her own son, whose powers were beginning to emerge, might be safer here, but she missed her parents, the Crashdown, the smell of creosote and burnt desert sunsets.

Jim Valenti died just as the sector where the Atrians were to stay was finished being secured. Maria had emailed her his obituary. Liz kept thinking that Sheriff Valenti would certainly have had something to say about this whole sector business.

It would have been nice to see Roswell one last time, to reminisce with Kyle, to drive by the Crashdown to see what had changed, and what had stayed the same. She’d give just about anything to see Maria, texts and emails were just not the same as hearing her voice. She missed Michael and Isabel too. She wondered where Ava had ended up. She imagined if they had gone back, she would have stopped to say hi to Alex and let him know she was ok.

Max was right though, it was too dangerous to go back for the funeral. Sometimes it felt like sadness was bubbling up inside of her, shaping itself into something that might escape. Every once in a while she surprised herself by setting something on fire, or breaking a glass on the other side of the room. Perhaps living in such close proximity with the Atrians was intensifying the powers she had inherited after Max saved her. It was something to think about.

Max interrupted her thoughts, quietly closing the door behind him. “There was another explosion in the sector,” he said a mixture of resignation and resentment coloring his words. Max, although determined to forge something better for the Atrians, had grown more pessimistic about their fate the longer he stayed on the bayou, another thing on the pile of things to worry about.

Antar had gone when they were in California. Liz couldn’t pinpoint the exact day or time, but it had been before she had Wes, during the year in Los Angeles when Max had dreamt terrible things and suffered from insomnia in equal measure. One morning Max touched her arm, a vision, (not unlike those of the crash), and then she had known for sure. It wasn’t a surprise that Antar would burn itself out, but the certainty that it had, made her stomach hurt. She listened to the matter of fact way he had relayed the news to Isabel and Michael over the phone. It gave her chills when he got like that. He seemed so different than the boy who saved her life in the Crashdown that day.

Ever since then, Max had been on a mission, he was the 18 year old Max again, searching for his son. But now it was a whole colony of aliens he was trying to save, instead of one very human newborn.

Liz thought of Zan as she often did, as she suspected Max often did, when crazy things happened. For the millionth time, she sent up prayers that Zan was happy wherever he was. She reminded herself that he was safer without them.

“I think it is time we talk to the boy – Roman,” Max said resolutely, sending chills up her spine again, and Liz knew their quiet life in Eljida was about to change.  

* * *  

Liz had spotted the girl easily. Max raised his hands to blast her if needed, but it was clear she was not a threat. She had obviously followed the Atrian boy. After a wordless exchange, Max nodded, and Liz called out to the girl, letting her know that not only had she been caught, but also that she was not in any danger.

The girl stepped forward determinedly, and Liz marveled at how adult these kids seemed. She and Max had been so timid, so fearful, so cautious, and always looking over their shoulders, so unsure of themselves.

The Atrian, Roman, adjusted his posture to protect the girl, it was an infinitesimal back step, a tensing of his shoulders, but it spoke volumes to Liz.

“What’s your name?” Liz asked the girl.

“She’s not part of this,” Roman interrupted tensely. Liz flicked her gaze over to Max. There was an intensity between the two teenagers, the tug and pull of destiny and worlds divided. It was a familiar, bittersweet ache.

She thought about the morning she and Max had driven back into town after finding the first orb. She thought about how vibrant and absolute the future had seemed on that crisp morning. _What’s my destiny?_ She had asked her heart a furious thumping thing. _I only know the part I’m hoping for._

“I’m sorry,” the girl said reaching for the Atrian. “I couldn’t let you come alone,” she explained as their gazes met. The boy reached for her hand, entwined their fingers, and pulled her closer.

“We aren’t going to hurt you, either of you,” Max said, stepping in front of the boy. “But we do need to talk. The fate of your people and what’s left of mine depend on it.”

“You’re not Atrian,” the girl surmised, intrigued. “And not human either.”

“Not exactly,” Liz found herself saying wryly.

“I’m Emery,” the girl said holding out her hand.

“Nice to meet you Emery,” Liz smiled. “This is my husband Max.”

“What are you?” Roman demanded, his voice hard, his eyes fixed on Max. “And how can you be here amongst the Atrian’s? They don’t let strangers into this place. ”

“It’s a long story -”

“And one better told inside,” Liz finished, nodding towards their place amongst the elaborately decorated Atrian yurts.  


	2. Chapter 2

2014

The day the Atrian’s land on earth, Jarrett Lawton rides his bike deep into the Mojave. There is a secret place, a grotto, long ago formed by fallen boulders. Each year, during the morning of the summer solstice, sunlight blazes through to illuminate the image of an archaic desert hunter who dances in celebration. His spear has driven home, a desert goat at his feet.

But on the day the Atrian’s crash land, it is not quite time yet, on this day the secret place is dark.

He listens to the harsh chuh, chuh, chuh, chuh of the Cactus Wren, as its unapologetic song wriggles its way into the cavern.

290 species of birds travel the airways over the Mojave, etching out nests in the saguaro, and singing their traditional songs across wide open spaces. Some, like the Indigo Bunting are transients, abandoning nests in the dead of night, guided by only the stars. Others make spectacular seasonal displays, their great vulture wings spread to catch the early morning sun, then taking flight in flocks of whirlwinds headed towards Mexico.

When he was ten, and new to this place, he used to recite their names with a childish certainty that remembering them all, Verdin, Mourning Dove, Le Conte’s Thrasher, Gambel’s Quail - would imbue him with a greater sense of belonging, would secure a less moveable ground to stand on.

The smell of creosote, afternoons spent parting the prickly stems of the Cholla to see intricately guarded nests that held freckled buff colored eggs, and the vast openness of the desert grounded him for a while. But not knowing where he had come from, or why he had been given up left him with heavy brick in his pocket.

A brick that feels both heavier and lighter on this day. There is nothing but news of the Atrian’s on the television. They scramble, but do not run, do not get very far at all. They are herded like cattle and whisked away by soldiers. They are aliens, but they do nothing to save themselves.

At first his heart is a thing with wings, and he thinks: _finally_. Maybe there is kin. Perhaps wherever he is from, whoever his people are, there is a chance that he might finally know.

But he is not like them.

Not at all like them, because he can _do_ things. As far back as his memory goes there is the knowledge that he is different, powerful. He can change things: the truth, minds - the physical properties of things. Unlike the Atrian’s he would fight, he would not be rounded up to live out his days in a military institution.

When he opens the door to his parents’ home later that night, he hears the soft murmur of the television coming from behind their closed door. They have loved him well, provided him with everything he could need. But his blood is not the same as their blood and he belongs somewhere else. He is also twenty –two, and it is seriously about time he flies from this nest.

He considers going to Louisiana, but it is a story on the internet about a place called Roswell New Mexico that resonates like a memory.

* * *

It turns out the military knows a thing or two about aliens like him. He learns this the hard way.

There are signs posted on orange posts warning civilians away. He ignores them, if there were, or had been others like him in this place, he had to know. If things got tricky, he could use his powers, work his way out of a mess. He had done it before.

But they aren’t guys in a bar fight, or pumped up high school jocks, and although he wasn’t planning on getting arrested, he finds himself in cuffs, his chin in the dirt. They are quiet, efficient, and it occurs to him that no one knows he is here. No one will come looking for him. The last time he talked to his parents he had lied and said, his road trip had taken him to the Grand Canyon.

He shuts down the panic that rises in his throat. There will be a way out, there always is. So he lets them take him in without a fight, at first.

They ID him and take his fingerprints. He does not worry; he is human enough on the outside. As they lead him down a gray and dank corridor, his heart flips wildly. For all his bravado, he knows he can’t let them lock him up. He knows with his clean record it probably won’t be long, but even one night is too much. He isn’t built for confinement.

So he pushes out, feels every cell in his body straining to manipulate the air around him. He can make them see whatever he wants; a dragon swooping in and setting fire to the walls, or an earthquake zig zagging across the floor and opening an endless chasm.

He settles for something simpler. They will feel him collapse; they will loosen their grip as he falls to his knees. As they tend to the mirage version of himself, he will show them a prisoner that is having a seizure. He will hold that image, project out through every cell until he is making his way back through that hallway towards freedom.

But that does not happen.

He pushes again, and his head throbs. It is then that he realizes that something down here is wrong, something is blocking his powers. So instead of making a great escape, he is unceremoniously thrust into a cell where a doughy man rests on a cot, his legs crossed over one another. The man doesn’t bother to look up.


End file.
